


the sea and the rhythm

by erlkoenig



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Are we lovers Francis?, Don't ask me how the survived just accept that they did, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Birthday Kris, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The answer is Very Much Yes, this is just tooth-rotting domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: “Sleep well?” James asks, tilts his head up in that way Francis knows is begging for a good morning kiss, and who is he to deny him? He pads across the kitchen floor, takes a moment to brush a stray curl away from his face before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 5
Kudos: 78





	the sea and the rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> For [Kris](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com), whose famous last words were "I will take any Fitzier, any day" alongside wanting Fitzier "Victorian Stroll in the Park". I hope you have a happy birthday, please enjoy these Tender Lads being extra tender for you.

James is already awake and sitting at the breakfast table, thumbing through the paper while a cup of coffee grows cold by his hand. Francis lingers in the doorway, shoulder to the frame and just watches this, like a dream he had when he thought he might never see sunlight drift soft through the curtains ever again.

_I want to survive this expedition, Francis._

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Francis waves his hand, “Not at all.” 

“Sleep well?” James asks, tilts his head up in that way Francis knows is begging for a good morning kiss, and who is he to deny him? He pads across the kitchen floor, takes a moment to brush a stray curl away from his face before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Mm. I think I knew somehow, when you left the bed.”

James chuckles, takes his hand and pulls him towards the other chair. “I know how that is, I can’t sleep without you.”

Francis snorts at that, takes the bit of the paper James has finished as it’s passed to him. “Bullshit, you snore right through my morning routine.”

“I can’t sleep well, then.” James scowls down at the paper, flips to the crossword and makes a point of ignoring Francis as he reaches to steal a sip of his cold coffee — more cream than coffee, and he might have teased him for it any other time but he’s feeling almost soft this morning. 

The quiet weaves a spell through the kitchen, something warm and safe and still, and Francis reaches for James’ hand, slips his fingers between his and lets what remains of the morning pass just like this.

He always feared that the retired lifestyle would kill him slowly, leave him a relic on a shelf to collect dust, bored out of his mind until he slipped away to join the grey-haired old men in the park, feeding pigeons and reminiscing about another life. 

James adores the park pigeons, chases after them with his hands full of seeds and peanuts, clicking his tongue like he’s trying to coax a cat out of hiding. Francis watches him at it, hands in his pockets, only interrupts him to loop his scarf around his neck where it’s come loose and threatening to float away. 

They walk side by side, James talking animatedly about this thing or that, bumping into Francis and nearly sending him off the path in his excited retelling of whatever book he’s finished lately. Francis listens, enjoys the sound of his voice even if he’s barely following along. 

It’s nice, this peace that they’ve made for themselves, hard won that it is. 

“Ducks!” James is off again, crouched by the edge of the pond and talking to the birds like they might answer him. “Francis, we should bring peas next time.”

“What about bread?”

“Oh, definitely not.” James frowns and launches into the how’s and why’s of duck diets and why bread is not good for them. 

Francis wants to kiss him, makes a note of it for when they’re home again. He’ll make them both something warm to drink, pulls their chairs up to the fire and ask James to read to him. 

“You’ll just fall asleep two pages in.” James says, hanging up his coat and scarf, retrieves Francis’ coat where it was discarded on the little table by the door. It had started to rain just as they returned home from the park, and Francis cannot think of a more perfect day and night as this. 

“Perhaps.” He says from the kitchen, warming up some milk for the drinking chocolate. “But I’m an old man.”

“You’re not that old, Francis.”

“I’m an old man, and old men sleep and grouse about Parliament.”

James comes up behind him, rests his chin on Francis’ shoulder. “Hm. Well, when you put it that way then you’re positively ancient, darling.”

They laugh, and it’s so easy that it makes something twist in his chest, a fear that he’s going to wake up from this and be back there. 

Back there, with James’ hand going cold even wrapped in both of his own, sweat freezing on his skin and eyes clouding with pain. _I want to survive this expedition, Francis._ And Francis pulling the threadbare blankets up right around his chin, promising something he was so afraid he couldn’t give him.

_ou will, you will, I swear it._

“Hey, hey.” James pulls him out of this nightmare, gently turns him by his shoulders and the shaky, stuttering breaths that are so loud in his ears are coming from himself. “Come back to me, Francis.” 

James hands are warm and alive against his face and he looks up through tear-blurred eyes at him. 

“I’m alright, Francis. I’m here.” A smile, and it’s so sad, and Francis knows that it’s sad because of him, because of this panic that had settled so deep between his ribs. “I’m here.”

“I know.” Francis says, voice rough and hands shaking with more than just his tremor as he brings James’ knuckles to his lips. “It’s just—“ He cant bring himself to finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to.

“I know.”

The rain is coming down in sheets, beating a rhythm against the roof. James wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself and Francis drapes another blanket across his lap as they settle for the night. 

“What are you in the mood for?” Francis asks from the bookcase, fingers drifting across the spines.

“The Tempest?”

Francis pulls a face and it pulls a sharp, sweet laugh from James. “Right, no Shakespeare.” 

Francis would be content to revisit Darwin’s Journal of Researches yet again but James has been enamored with more Romantic novels. He spots Wuthering Heights, bought some months ago and then relegated to the shelf when Francis has seem less than enthused by the premise. 

It’s likely James has forgotten they had it at all.

“Here,” he says, handing over the book before pulling his chair even closer, brushes a slippered foot against James’ ankle and shrugs when James gives him a fond, but questioning look. “You wanted to read it.”

“And you didn’t.”

“I’m allowed to change my mind. And anyhow,” he shrugs again, sips at his tea as James opens the book, “like you said, I’ll likely drift off in the middle.”

“In the middle?” James teases, “Is your tea strong enough to keep you awake for so long?”

Francis huffs, and grinning, James begins to read. 

He doesn’t make it through the first chapter, and next thing he knows, James is gently shaking him awake.

“Come to bed, darling. Your back will thank us both.”

It washes over him again during their mundane nightly rituals, washing up, brushing their teeth, James brushing his hair before bed. He finds him holding his breath during the pauses in James’ movements until he hears him puttering about the bedroom again, over and over until he’s afraid he might turn around and find himself alone in the room. 

He can still hardly believe it; that they’re here, that they made it, that when it was all over and they were safe, James had been the one to quietly suggest they share a flat and Francis had agreed, waiting even then for some great cosmic punchline to come and take it all from him. 

And now here he is, slipping under the covers with James, kissing him goodnight, falling asleep with his back to the other man’s chest. 

It’s a soft ending, and for all he feels he does not deserve it, he thinks James deserves this and more. 

If this is what James wishes, then who is he to deny him it?


End file.
